Tradition
by REDskies
Summary: It's tradition, he tells himself, and so he grits his teeth and bears it.


"Tradition, tradition tradition," Matthew mumbled to himself, folding the large blanket into a size which could be fitted into the basket. God knows why it all had to be put into a basket of all things (did no one know about coolers?), but as Francis would say, "_Mon petite_, how can you have a picnic without a basket? When one wants to go for the full experience of a true _French_ picnic, you must have the basket! And the French loaves, escargots-"

"Snails. You brought _snails_."

"_Escargots_, my dear Alfred. "Snails" sounds so vulgar. And as I recall, the last time I packed some for our trip to Windsor, all of you- _Angleterre_ in particular- enjoyed them a great deal~"

"No one enjoyed your little snails, frog."

It said a great deal about family dynamics, when one was able to nicely predict each participant's reactions and possible rebuttals and arguments. But having been in this situation countless times, perhaps it was justified.

It really _was_ tradition. Since their days as colonies, their little family picnic would take place each and every year, on the 17th of April. No one really knew why that date was picked, it was just... The way it was. Just like how each year, without ever discussing it, they would take turns to go to each others' houses. The year before was Alfred, the last Arthur, and it was finally Francis' turn this year, and Matthew's would be the next.

It ticked like clockwork; ever-consistent and never questioned. Other families did birthdays, anniversaries and holidays, their "family" did April 17th.

And if you were to use the clockwork analogy, it had to be said that this clock was... Rather dysfunctional. Essentially timely when it came to it, but nevertheless ticking at quite a different pace, when compared to other clocks.

Where other families simply gathered in their own living rooms, the three visitors would fly over to the host's house, jet lagged and grumpy (in the case of England, usually), plonk themselves down on the couch, and wait for the rest.

The host would prepare the food. Actually, Francis and Matthew were the only ones who ever actually cooked any food. England simply burned his, and America for the most part, ordered in "Their (read: His) Favourite".

Usually, the guests would find something in the house to complain about Be it the décor, the chips laid out on the table, or the lint on the floor, something was somehow always up for scrutiny: As Arthur himself had said, if family can't tell you what's wrong with you, who else can? (although quite a sarcastic emphasis on "family" was placed).

And after a lot of pushing, shoving, more complaining ("For fuck's sake, Arthur, _stop_ rearranging my books." "Alfred, if Kumajiro says no, will you just _leave him alone_?" "_Amérique_! What on earth is wrong with your _shoes_!" "B-Bastards! Just put that down, will you? Bloody gits don't know how to keep their hands to themselves..."), they would finally be out of the house, and on the road.

Where of course, there would be more, er, "friendly conversation".

"... So, _Mattieu_, how is Ukraine?"

"... W-What? She's fine, I suppose...?"

"Aw Mattie, come on. We know that there's more than that~"

"Matthew, are you... Bedding Ukraine?"

"WHAT? N-NO! Whoever gave you the idea that-"

"'Cause I mean, if you aren't, I'd totally go for her. Have you seen her _tits_? How lucky can you get Matt-"

"_Alfred_! One must be respectful of women, especially in matters of _l'armour_!"

"... That's rich coming out from you, Francis. Respectful indeed. Keep your eyes on the bloody road."

And then they would finally leave the vehicle, usually much to Matthew's utter relief at being prodded at with attempts at parental-type questions.

Which of course, was only to be followed by more argument at how _someone_ forgot to pack the cups, _someone else_ put in the wrong tissues, and _why on earth was there lubricant next to the sandwiches_? ("Because, _Mon Cherie_, you know as well as I that you never know when you may need-" The echos of the slap could be heard, even in the large meadow they had settled in.)

Finally, they would all manage to settle down, squeeze onto the rug which was far too small for four adults now, and for once, be absolutely quiet, somehow enjoying each others' presence.

The silence was so still, so extremely wonderful, Matthew thought that perhaps, that moment alone was enough to justify the rest of the torture he was subjected to for the rest of the trip. Despite himself knowing what was going to follow, Canada found himself wishing that _perhaps_ this moment could somehow sustain itself and-

"Oi, frog, get your snails away from my sandwich."

"Escargot, _Angleterre. _Say it with me now, es-car-_goh_. Es-car-"

"Ehh? I thought it was es-car-got?" Matt could even picture France's expression without looking at him.

… _Well, I suppose I wouldn't enjoy the peace if there wasn't such a lack of it every day._

**A/N:**

_Right. Another non-historically accurate one. I find it funny how I enjoy so much FrCa and USUK and then write something like this, of all things. And yes, I think France and England totally try to act all parental and shizz around America and Canada from time to time, even when they're all grown up, just for their own personal illusions of parental-type authority._


End file.
